Edge of the Heat 5

by Lisa Ladew

  Jerry’s eyes widened as he listened to this speech. He didn’t know this detective - he’d never seen him before. And he couldn’t believe that he was being … being bulldozed like this.

  “What’s your name?” he spit out.

  The man reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a card. Jerry took it. Detective Jon Gagne.

  Jerry didn’t trust himself to speak. His heart was pounding again, but this time in anger, not fear. He knew he needed to cool off a little bit before he tried again to have a conversation with this man.

  “Thanks,” he forced out. He gave a half salute with the hand that was holding the card and turned on his heel, heading away from the detective. He walked to his car to sit and think about what had just happened, and what he could do now.

  After Jerry’s blood had cooled, he tried to wrap his head around what was going on. He fished a notebook out of his trunk and began to write down a sort of timeline, trying to remember exactly what had happened when. He wrote down what he had seen in the apartment and his impressions of both of the police officers and the detective. Something told him this case wasn’t the big deal to the police department that it was to him. His heart sunk at the thought. If his FBI friends, Craig and Hawk, were investigating this case, he bet they would have found something already.

  As he finished writing, movement caught his eye. He looked up to see Detective Gagne getting into a black suburban parked a row over. He was leaving?

  Jerry jumped out of his car and ran to head off the detective.

  “You’re leaving?” Jerry asked.

  “Yes, there’s nothing more I can do here until morning. I’ll be back at 6 a.m. and start knocking on doors. Even then I’m sure I’ll wake plenty of people up.” The detective’s sour face indicated this was the worst thing he could think of.

  Jerry wanted to say a dozen things. He wanted to grab the detective and force him back to the apartment to wake people now. His blood steamed and churned as he bit his lip again and again. But more than any of that, he wanted Sara to show up and say “What’s going on?” Actually, he wanted Sara not to have left him this evening. Realizing that, his anger deflated and a pounding headache took its place. Instead of going off on the detective he said the only thing he could think of. “See you at 6.” He turned and went back to his car.

  In his car, he reclined the driver’s seat and pressed a hand to his beating head. What a fuckup this was. Jerry closed his eyes and calmed his breathing. He certainly wasn’t leaving, but maybe he could catch a few hours of sleep before 6. He looked down at himself. He was still in his tuxedo. He dug around in the back of his car until he found his spare clothes he always kept back there. He did a quick change in the darkness of his front seat, set an alarm on his phone, and then promptly fell asleep, using his tuxedo jacket as a pillow.

  In his dreams, he chased a train endlessly. Right before he woke up, he realized the train was actually going around in a big, stupid circle.

  Chapter 4

  The alarm on Jerry’s phone woke him at exactly 5:45 a.m. The sun was up already and the birds chirped endlessly in the small trees lining the parking lot. Jerry’s headache was gone, but his eyes burned and he had a crick in his neck from sleeping in his car. Massaging his neck, he pulled the seat back forward and looked around to see if Detective Gagne’s black suburban was in the parking lot. It wasn’t. Jerry fished his keys out of his pocket and started his car. He needed a bathroom and something to drink and he had less than 15 minutes to find it.

  After a quick trip to a gas station down the street he pulled back in to the parking lot, feeling a bit better. He stepped out of his car and leaned against the hood, waiting for Gagne to show up.

  He didn’t show until 6:45. He parked in the stall next to Jerry’s car. As he got out of the car, Jerry bit back his impulse to ask him where he’d been. He was a cop. Things probably got busy.

  Detective Gagne strolled to the sidewalk and took a left, heading into the building. Jerry ran to catch up with him. “Uh, Detective, I know this probably isn’t protocol, but do you think you could let me listen in on your interviews?”

  Gagne raised an eyebrow at him. “No.”

  They rounded the building and Gagne started up the stairs. Jerry followed. “Look detective, I’m really worried about my friend, and I’m just going to come back and try to talk to these people again anyway. Wouldn’t you consider having a little professional courtesy or a little sympathy?”

  Gagne didn’t even slow. “No,” he said again.

  Jerry shook his head in frustration. Damnit!

  Gagne reached the second floor and walked to the first apartment he came to. It was 2F. Gagne knocked on the door and waited. He knocked again. Finally, a frail, female voice called out. “Just a minute.” Jerry smiled. He bet that was his chest pain patient from a couple of years ago. She would talk to him for sure.

  Jerry heard movement inside the door. Gagne held his badge up beside his head. The door opened an inch. “Yes?” the voice called out. Gagne talked his way inside and shut the door loudly behind him.

  Jerry sighed and leaned against the wall. He would just have to wait.

  Gagne was only inside for a few minutes. Jerry thought that was strange. Probably she didn’t see anything or know anything. Gagne gave him a single dark glance before knocking on the next door in the hallway. He knocked again, but there was no answer at this door.

  Gagne headed down the hall and knocked on the door directly across from Sara’s apartment. Jerry stayed where he was, not wanting to push his luck.

  They both heard heavy sounds inside the apartment, like someone was knocking over tables or chairs. Jerry perked up and watched Gagne closely to see what he would do. Gagne stood, impassive, unmoving.

  No one came to the door or said anything, and Gagne knocked again. More noises from inside. Then a deep male voice. “Who’re you?”

  “I am Detective Gagne of the Westwood Harbor Police Department. I need to talk to you about a crime that was committed here last night. Please open your door.”

  “What crime?” came the muffled voice through the door.

  “Please open your door Sir, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Lemme see your badge.”

  Stiffly, Gagne held it up to the peephole.

  “I’m calling the cops to see if you’re for real, man.”

  Gagne shook his head, then said “That’s fine. I’ll be right here.”

  Jerry smiled. It was good to see Detective Gagne dealing with a little frustration.

  After what seemed like a long time, Jerry heard noise behind the door again. It sounded like 5 or 6 deadbolts were being drawn back, and then 4 or 5 door chains being unhooked.

  A man opened the door about 6 inches, and then tried to slip out the opening. Gagne stepped back and the man squeezed out, closing his door behind him. He was at least 40, with a heavily lined face. His brown hair stood up in small spikes, like the world’s worst case of bedhead. He wore dirty jeans, brown work boots, and a paint-stained white t-shirt.

  “Whaddaya want, man?”

  “Can we go back in your apartment? I need to ask you some questions.” Gagne said.

  “You got a warrant?” the new guy asked.

  Jerry could see Gagne’s pinched expression from where he stood in the stairwell and it almost made him laugh.

  “No Sir, I don’t have a warrant. This isn’t about you at all. I just want to ask if you heard or saw anything last night at this apartment.” Gagne motioned to Sara’s door.

  “Oh yeah, I saw them.”

  “Saw who?”

  “The men. And then the cops.”

  Gagne glanced back at Jerry, then shook his head slightly. He sighed and pulled a notebook out of his pocket.

  “What’s your name, Sir?”

  Jerry smiled and listened closely. This was going better than he could have hoped for. The man was Chester Wysong. He occasionally worked at the local temp agency, but mostly he jus
t stayed in his apartment. It was a dangerous world out there, you know. No, he didn’t know the neighbor who lived across the hallway, although he could recognize her on sight. He had been in his apartment since 5 p.m. yesterday and he never saw Sara at all. He did, however, see a man enter her apartment just before midnight. He didn’t think that Sara had been with the man. By the time Chester had looked out his peephole, the man was already in the apartment and closing the door behind him. Gagne asked him why he had looked out his peephole - had he heard a noise? No, he hadn’t heard a noise, he just looked out his peephole every 10 minutes or so, or anytime he passed the door. He thought it was important to stay vigilant because of how the world was going to hell in a hand basket and you couldn’t even trust the cops these days. They were the worst criminals out there. Gagne stopped Chester’s rambling here and asked what the man had looked like.

  “Like you,” Chester had said and Jerry’s eyes bugged out of his head. “What do you mean, like me?” Gagne asked tightly.

  “You know man, like a cop. He had the crew cut and the beefy neck and he was wearing dark khaki pants with all the pockets in them and a tight shirt like the cops wear when they are on drug busts.”

  Gagne touched his definitely not-beefy neck, wrote a few things down in his notebook, and asked a few more questions about what the guy looked like. Chester had only seen the back of his head, and that was unfortunate. The guy did have a tattoo on his right forearm though. It looked like an American flag, but it was in black and white. Gagne wrote all this down in his notebook and Jerry fixed it in his brain.

  The next thing he had seen was Jerry. He’d heard Jerry first calling for Sara and then had looked out the peephole, and seen “a tall, bald man wearing a tuxedo.”

  A wan smile skimmed across Jerry’s face. This guy wasn’t just blowing smoke or making stuff up. He was describing what had actually happened. And that first guy had to be who they were looking for. Then his face fell. If only Gagne had talked to this guy last night! The cops could have already been out looking for this guy.

  Chester said the next thing he saw out his peephole was the two uniformed cops coming and taking Jerry’s report. He’d gone to bed shortly after that.

  “And then you woke me up at the crack of dawn,” Chester told Gagne reproachfully.

  Gagne thanked him and said that was all he needed. Then he walked to the next door. Chester watched him go and then slipped back into his door, opening it as little as possible again.

  I hope he wasn’t making that up about the first guy and he doesn’t have Sara tied up in his apartment right now, Jerry thought. He shook his head. He sounded as paranoid as Chester did.

  Detective Gagne knocked on the two other doors on the floor, but got no answer. He headed down the stairs on the far end of the building and Jerry ran down the hallway to catch up with him.

  On the first floor, the detective knocked on every door and asked anyone who answered if they had seen the man Chester had described. Jerry stood next to the stairwell and thought to himself that at least Gagne was thorough.

  When Gagne had hit every door on the ground level, he walked swiftly back to his black Suburban. Jerry caught him a few feet from it.

  “Detective!”

  Gagne kept walking.

  Jerry ran in front of him. “Wait Detective, please, just tell me what you are going to do now.”

  “My job, Mr. Mansko, my job.”

  “But what does that mean? Are you going to put out an APB on this cop-looking guy?”

  Gagne looked momentarily offended at this, but he quickly dropped his face back into a perfect mask of contempt. “No, no APB. I don’t have enough of a description to put an APB out on him.”

  “A flag tattoo on his right forearm, beefy neck, and crew cut isn’t enough of a description for the cops on the street to at least be aware that you are looking for someone who fits that description?”

  “No, it’s not.” Gagne spoke slowly, like he was talking to someone with a brain defect.

  “Well what will you do then?”

  Gagne glared at Jerry silently. “Look Mr. Mansko. I don’t follow you around in the ambulance and ask you what your next drug is that you are going to give your patient, do I? So what makes you think that I should have to tell you what my next move is? Police work is not up for public scrutiny. I will do what I am supposed to do.”

  Jerry gritted his teeth and felt a muscle in his neck start to throb. So Gagne knew who he was, huh?

  “I guess you don’t have to tell me anything. But why wouldn’t you? I am extremely worried about my friend and it would make me feel much better if I knew that her case was being actively investigated.”

  Gagne raised his chin. “Of course it is being actively investigated. I’m here aren’t I?” Gagne turned to his vehicle and put his hand out to open the door.

  Feeling desperate, Jerry grabbed his wrist. “Detective please, just let me-”

  Gagne fixed him with a death stare. “Take your hand off of me.”

  Jerry dropped his hand, but moved between the detective and his vehicle. “Sorry, but why won’t you just hear me out here? I really think something bad has hap-”

  Detective Gagne interrupted him again. His voice sounded low and dangerous. “Move out of my way.” Jerry had a second to think he probably should move, and then Gagne thrust his hand behind his back, under his suit coat. He’s going to shoot me, flashed through Jerry’s mind and then Gagne’s hand was back out. He had his handcuffs and quick as a cat he slipped one over Jerry’s wrist.

  “You’re under arrest.” Gagne growled it, pure anger shining out of his face.

  Fuck, Jerry thought. A perfect streak, ruined. I haven’t been arrested in 18 years, and then I go and get Detective Short-Fuse and it’s all over.

  “Arrested for what?” Jerry managed to get out, as Gagne twisted his arm behind his back and pulled back the other one, cuffing them both together.

  “Obstruction of justice. Harassment of a police officer. Is that enough for you or do you want more charges?” Gagne pulled Jerry to the back of the suburban and opened the door. “Get in.”

  Jerry climbed in the vehicle, his mind racing. What was he going to do now? All he wanted to do was look for Sara, but admittedly, he didn’t have any idea where to start looking. And here he was, being arrested and taken to jail. Well, I guess I can start looking there, he thought crazily, and felt his brain slip a notch. His headache was pounding again.

  Chapter 5

  Sara Acosta came fully awake in an instant, like she always did. Her eyes snapped open and took in her surroundings. Clear. She looked at the clock. 4:30 p.m. Perfect. She’d gotten almost 4 hours of sleep, which would have to be enough. She snapped off the alarm before it could blare annoyingly and swung her feet out of the motel bed onto the floor. She looked down at her outfit. Her stretch pants were fine but her shirt was wrinkled. Well, she didn’t have anything to change into yet, so it would just have to do. She hated stretch pants, but they were the only pants small enough to roll up and fit in her small cross-body purse she always wore. When she ditched her dress last night, balling it up tight and hiding it under a large rock, she had already dressed in these clothes. At least they were comfortable.

  She slipped her feet into her shoes, black satin slippers she also carried in her purse at all times. They were no good for fighting or kicking, but they were good for running as long as the ground wasn’t too rocky or covered with glass or something. And for stealing cars and driving all night? They were perfect. With her shoes on, she headed into the bathroom to make herself presentable. She had a lot of work to do.

  Precisely 4 minutes later, thick, black hair (she had stopped about halfway the night before and dyed it in a gas station bathroom) pulled around her face, and her teeth scrubbed clean with her finger, Sara headed out the door to begin her life as Brooke Barnes. She dropped her motel key (she had paid cash a few hours ago, claiming to have lost her wallet and slipping the clerk an extra $2
0) in the drop box and walked the 8 blocks to Las Vegas First Community Bank, dodging the crowds on the sidewalk like an old pro.

  Inside the bank, 8 minutes from closing, she gave her story again about losing her wallet, but she dangled the safety deposit key in front of the clerk’s eyes and said she had a passport inside the box that would verify her identity. She knew this close to the time when they could lock the doors and put this stuffy place behind them they were much more likely to just open the box and let her show them the passport than they were to demand identification up front. She could get identification if she had to, but it would take time.

  The stuffy old-lady manager walked her into the vault, put in her key and then sat stiffly next to her while she opened the box and then showed the passport. Satisfied, the woman had sniffed, and left the vault, leaving Sara to retrieve her things. She pulled everything out of the box and stuffed it in her bag. She closed the box and called for the manager, both of them locking the empty box with their keys. She thanked the manager and walked out, feeling strangely light and heavy at the same time.

  Light, because starting over always made her feel happy and excited. Light because she believed that this time it had been closer than ever, but she had managed to escape still. Heavy because she had really liked being Sara. She had loved being a physical therapist. For a while there she had felt normal. Heck, she’d almost had a … (boyfriend) - NO! Her mind yelled at her before she could whisper the word to herself. You had no such thing. You’ll never have a boyfriend.

  Sara set her mouth, turned her mind from thoughts of Jerry, and hailed a taxi on the busy street. She got one immediately. “The Encore, please.”

  On the way, Sara let her thoughts wander. She tried not to let them wander to Jerry, but they did occasionally. She wondered what he was doing right now. She wondered if he was devastated when she’d left last night. Or if he was just pissed. He’d seemed to really like her a lot, although she wasn’t sure why. She had never tried to give him anything to like or be interested in. Not that any of it mattered anymore, she would never see him again. A small pang of something gripped her heart at that thought. She pushed it away. It wasn’t important.